The paper lunch bag was still warm when my husband's new secretary studied my jeans, glanced at our family photo, and told me Garrett needed someone younger. I could have corrected her. Instead, I took a business card from his desk, wrote one sentence on the back, and watched her read it twice over.
I set Garrett's lunch and laptop charger on the corner of his desk.
His new secretary stood beside it with a cup of coffee.
"You're too old for him," she sneered.
I thought I'd misheard.
"You're too old for him."
The young woman standing beside my husband's desk leaned closer.
"He needs someone younger."
She glanced toward Garrett, who was pacing by the window with his phone pressed to his ear.
Then she smiled at me.
I looked down at my jeans.
"He needs someone younger."
There was a faint flour mark near one knee from the pancakes I'd made that morning.
My hair was clipped up with the plastic claw clip I kept in the kitchen drawer.
I'd dressed to drive downtown and drop off a forgotten lunch, not to impress anyone.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
She tilted her head.
Her name was Sloane.
I'd approved the budget for her position six weeks earlier, though Garrett and the office manager had handled the hiring.
We'd never met.
I looked at the framed photograph on Garrett's desk.
Our son stood between us, grinning with his mouth full of braces. Our daughter was holding the family dog, who appeared determined to escape.
Sloane followed my gaze.
"He's a successful man," she whispered. "You should understand that appearances matter."
I considered explaining that I was the person who'd chosen that photograph.
Instead, I picked up one of Garrett's business cards.
I borrowed a pen from the desk and wrote a sentence on the back.
"Appearances matter."
Then I handed it to her.
"I'm Iris, the cofounder who approved the budget for your position."
Sloane read it.
Then she read it again.
She stopped smiling. Then she turned the card over, checked Garrett's name on the front, and looked at the handwriting again.
"You're Iris?"
"Yes."
She looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
"No," I said. "You didn't."
Garrett ended his call.
He turned, spotted me, and smiled.
"Hey! You came all the way down?"
He crossed the office, kissed my cheek, and reached for the paper bag.
"And the charger. You're a lifesaver."
"Third time this month," I told him.
"Only the third?"
He grinned.
Then he noticed Sloane standing beside the desk, still holding his business card.
"Everything okay?"
I looked at him.
"Your secretary just told me I'm too old for you."
Garrett set the lunch bag down.
"What?"
Sloane spoke quickly.
"I was only joking."
"About my wife's age?"
I folded my arms.
"It came out exactly as you intended."
Garrett looked from her to me.
"Sloane, that was inappropriate. You don't speak to anyone that way, whether they're family or a visitor."
"I'm sorry," she said.
She looked at him while she said it.
Garrett noticed.
"You should apologize to Iris."
"I'm sorry."
Sloane turned.
I nodded.
Garrett glanced at the business card.
"What's that?"
"An introduction."
He took the card and read the back.
For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed.
"I should've made sure she knew you were my cofounder."
"Yes," I said. "You should have."
He told Sloane that the incident would be documented and reviewed through the firm's usual process.
Then he asked her to return to reception.
She left without another word.
When the door closed, Garrett pulled out his chair.
"I can't," I said. "I've got to pick up our daughter after practice."
"Five minutes?"
I checked my watch.
"Four."
He rubbed his face.
"For?"
"I had no idea she'd say something like that."
"Neither did I."
He glanced at the card again.
"She knows your name. It's on the hiring approval."
"Knowing my name and knowing who I am aren't quite the same thing."
He didn't answer immediately.
That was unusual for Garrett.
Fifteen years ago, we'd started the firm from our apartment.
We had one laptop.
A folding table.
And a printer that jammed whenever a deadline was approaching.
Garrett drew the plans.
I handled the accounts, negotiated with suppliers, and tried to make sure our clients paid before the electricity bill came due.
We'd built it together.
Now the firm occupied an entire floor of a downtown high-rise.
Garrett managed the staff and clients.
I handled finances and payroll from home.
Three years earlier, I'd stopped coming into the office every day because our children's schedules had become ridiculous.
Our son had sports practice four afternoons a week.
Our daughter had school activities, music lessons, and an impressive ability to forget where she'd left her shoes.
Working from home made everything easier.
Or so I'd thought.
Garrett reached across the desk.
"Iris, you know how important you are here."
I looked at the business card.
"I know what I do."
"I'm not sure everyone else does."
He looked at the card again.
I stood.
"I've got to go."
He walked me to the door.
"Can we talk tonight?"
"And thank you for lunch."
"You're welcome."
As I passed reception, Sloane was staring at her computer screen.
She didn't look up.
I didn't stop.
I had a daughter to collect.
That evening, Garrett arrived home with flowers.
I was standing at the stove, trying to rescue a pot of rice I'd forgotten about.
He held out the bouquet.
I looked at the flowers.
"Did you buy those because you forgot to introduce me or because your secretary insulted me?"
He considered the question.
"Both."
I took the bouquet and put it in water.
He came around the counter.
"I'm going to make sure this is handled."
"Good."
"She's young. Maybe she doesn't understand how to deal with people yet."
I turned off the stove.
"She's twenty-three, Garrett. That's old enough to know you don't insult somebody's wife."
"And it doesn't matter that I'm your wife. She shouldn't say it to anyone."
He leaned against the counter.
"She seemed capable in the interview."
"She may be capable at some things," I said.
He looked at me.
"You're not asking me to fire her?"
"No. I'm asking you to take it seriously."
He seemed surprised.
"I will."
Two days later, I stopped at the print shop that had produced our architectural plans since the beginning.
Mara owned it.
She'd printed our first proposal at eleven o'clock at night because our home printer had swallowed the final page.
Back then, she'd let us pay the following week.
Now she had three employees and equipment that could print a drawing large enough to cover our kitchen wall.
When I walked in, she came around the counter.
"Iris! I haven't seen you in ages."
She hugged me.
"How's Garrett?"
"Busy."
"And the kids?"
She laughed and went to collect the plans I'd ordered.
Then she hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Did Garrett change how your office handles suppliers?"
I frowned.
"Not that I know of."
"Why?" I asked.
Mara set the wrapped drawings on the counter.
"I called last week to check whether he wanted the updated presentation boards delivered or collected."
"Right."
"Your new secretary told me I shouldn't contact Garrett directly anymore."
"That's normal for some requests. Did she give you the project manager's name?"
Mara shook her head.
"She said Garrett didn't have time to deal with little suppliers."
I stared at her.
"More or less. She told me to leave a message at reception and someone would decide whether it was worth passing along." Mara gave a small shrug. "I thought maybe things had changed."
"They haven't."